


habits

by dons



Series: waiting for you [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: + pianist taeyong, Angst, Domestic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Missing Persons, Slice of Life, producer doyoung
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dons/pseuds/dons
Summary: over the span of their relationship, taeyong and dongyoung realize they can't live without each other.





	habits

**Author's Note:**

> hello !! im back from my hiatus !!!  
> this was something ive wanted to write for a while, so i spend about two hours just piecing it together this morning.  
> thank u to caro for reading this before i posted it !! love u

lee taeyong is the boy who sits in the back of his english class.

 

dongyoung watches him come in late and sit down, speaking quietly to the other people in the corner. they’re following each other on instagram, but that’s the extent of their communication.

 

still, dongyoung wants to know lee taeyong. he wants to be lee taeyong’s friend.

 

“stop staring and do your work,” ten tells him, and dongyoung turns.

 

▶

 

“i didn’t know you were in my geography class, lee taeyong,” dongyoung says to taeyong, who shares most of his schedule with dongyoung in their second semester.

 

taeyong looks at him. in the classroom that is dark, their eyes meet. “i didn’t know either.”

 

▶

 

dongyoung confesses to him in real life. he could have texted, or called, or sent an anonymous letter, but he’s standing in the middle of the hallway with taeyong in front of him, late for class.

 

“what do you mean, you like me?” taeyong asks. he has his hood pulled up so it rests on his bangs which cover his eyes which draw lines over dongyoung’s face, burning with question.

 

“i-” dongyoung wipes the sweat on his hands into his jeans, fingers slipping past the rough denim, each thread of black kissing his nails, his wrinkles. “i like you. i have a crush on you.”

 

it’s such a middle school way, dongyoung realizes, of confessing. if taeyong chooses to turn around, dongyoung would stand and watch him walk away, and their midnight calls would cease to exist. dongyoung is risking a friendship. he feels sweat on his brow that he tries to will away. he can almost feel baby reds on his forehead, unforgiving acne plaguing him for barely a week.

 

“i think i like you too,” taeyong says.

 

▶

 

dongyoung wonders if their relationship will last.

 

it’s been about six months. they’re heading into sophomore year fast, and dongyoung is watching as the seniors break up beyond the corners of the walls, and he thinks about taeyong, and taeyong’s hand holding his, and taeyong’s little smile when they watch movies, and taeyong’s eyes when dongyoung kisses him on the nose.

 

but he doesn’t want to think about it anymore. not now.

 

“you’re something else,” dongyoung tells him, three hours after school has ended. they’re standing on the balcony of the third floor, taeyong between the railing and dongyoung’s body, dongyoung looking at taeyong as he leans his back against the railing.

 

taeyong laughs. “am i?”

 

“you are” dongyoung says, and he kisses him. “you are, lee taeyong. you’re a rose.”

 

“am i your flower?”

 

and dongyoung leans in until he can see every little speck of gold in taeyong’s eyes. “you’re my flower.”

 

▶

 

there’s a graduating trip in their junior year. dongyoung brings his things over to taeyong’s house and they sit together on the bed, clothes piled up on the floor.

 

“what are you doing, kim dongyoung?” taeyong says. he’s fiddling with his cd player, scratches and grains running on the track, but he wouldn't trade this broken song for the world.

 

dongyoung looks down at his hands, which are folding shirts on default. “i’m folding clothes,” he replies.

 

taeyong huffs, and dongyoung wants to kiss him to the moon. “that’s not the way to do it,” he says, and takes the shirt from his hands, unfolding and then proceeding to roll it up.

 

“you-” dongyoung frowns. “you roll your shirts?”

 

“it saves space and reduces creases. don’t forget it, kim dongyoung.”

 

“i won’t, flower.” and he doesn’t.

 

▶

 

“do you know what love is?” taeyong asks him.

 

dongyoung is holding taeyong in his arms. the late summer breeze blows past his bangs. taeyong turns so that they are looking each other in the eye.

 

dongyoung looks at taeyong with such splendid care. he runs his finger over every curve of his face, every little scar and bruise and mole, and taeyong’s eyes are such mad things. they are mad, mad things, things that seem to speak and scream for attention and dongyoung can only give all of that attention and care and love.

 

“i do,” he says, voice airy but full of melody and song.

 

taeyong smiles at him. “i do too.”

 

and they kiss.

 

▶

 

“taeyong,” dongyoung breathes into the phone.

 

taeyong is on vacation, somewhere in japan visiting relatives. it’s christmas break, and it might be the only time taeyong can talk to any of his cousins before university.

 

 _“dongyoung?”_ taeyong says on the other side. wind blows into the microphone, but dongyoung doesn’t care. his own breath is heavy, resonating in his empty bedroom.

 

“flower,” he says, tongue thick like a dead fish in his mouth. his heart beats three times as fast, banging on his chest, wishing for release and for love and for taeyong. “i made it in. i’m going with you to seoul, baby.”

 

taeyong chokes audibly, on his spit, or the japan air, but it makes dongyoung laugh. “ _kim dongyoung,”_ taeyong says before smiling so widely that dongyoung can almost hear it, feel it, see it in front of him, and the phone line means nothing between them. he knows taeyong from the sound of his heart to the lashes on his eyes. he knows taeyong inside and out, he knows taeyong like a poet knows his pen, he knows taeyong like how a lover should.

 

“we’re going together,” dongyoung says, and taeyong flies back the next week to crush him in a hug.

 

▶

 

the first year of arts university is okay. dongyoung is working to be a producer, and taeyong has always wanted to be a pianist. they are tired, but they share a dorm room on a friendly floor, and friends are not hard to come by.

 

▶

 

in the second year, dongyoung wins a contest. his beat is going to an idol survival show- he doesn’t know which one, but they’re using his beat and displaying his name on the television.

 

“i’m so proud of you,” taeyong says, with his headphones on and keyboard plugged in, and dongyoung decides that instead of going out to celebrate, he’ll sit on the carpet listening to taeyong play his songs all night.

 

▶

 

“i don’t know why you talk to me like that,” taeyong says, angry whisper lilting on his tongue.

 

dongyoung is almost furious. “like what?” he snaps.

 

“like you can control what i do just because you-” taeyong turns and grabs a pillow, squeezing the life out of it. “-you think you’re better than me! because you make more than i do!”

 

“that’s not what i’m saying, taeyong.” dongyoung feels fire in his veins. taeyong turns from him, muttering useless nothings to himself, and seeing him so passive makes dongyoung even angrier “i’m looking out for your own good! i’m saying- i don’t want you to work so late. i can support us.”

 

“you want me to quit,” taeyong says.

 

“i never said that!”

 

“you want me to leave my _passion,_  what i've worked for my entire life, just because you think you can handle more than me.” taeyong snarls. dongyoung hates seeing him like this. he hates everything right now. “why won’t you give me my independence?”

 

independence. dongyoung doesn’t understand- all he does is care for taeyong. “you’re always so tired and i try to look out for you and this is what i get?”

 

“fuck you,” taeyong says. “i love my keyboard, i love my music, and you can’t take that away from me. i don’t know what’s happening to you, but until you realize you can’t control me, i don’t want to see you.”

 

dongyoung realizes they need space. he leaves the dorm room for the night.

 

▶

 

they both find success. it’s a dream, a dream for taeyong and dongyoung to do what they enjoy doing and live off of doing it. by the time they are about to graduate, they’re signed to a company as a producer duo, and dongyoung can’t believe his luck because taeyong is absolutely perfect and stunning and too good for him.

 

“we should start looking for a place to stay, shouldn’t we?” taeyong tells him.

 

dongyoung agrees. they spend that afternoon with their fingers intertwined, browsing houses and apartments in the area. and they find a perfect little house, with two bedrooms and two bathrooms and even a swimming pool.

 

“and we can turn the guest room into a nursery if we need it,” taeyong says, and dongyoung stops all movements.

 

he turns. “repeat that.”

 

“i- i know it’s early to be saying that, and i know we haven’t talked about this before,” he says, “but kim dongyoung, i want a future with you. and-”

 

he doesn’t get the chance to say more. dongyoung kisses him square on the lips and wraps his arms around him, and by the time they separate, dongyoung is thinking about what diamonds would look best on taeyong’s finger.

 

▶

 

they buy the house.

 

▶

 

taeyong insists on going to the farmer’s market every two weeks.

 

“did you bring a tote? don’t forget our tote,” he calls out from the front of the house, ready to go with his shoes on and hat in his hands.

 

“of course, flower,” he says, just as he grabs the tote from the bedroom doorknob.

 

thankfully, the market is twenty minutes south from their place. in that time, taeyong likes posing with the nature, and dongyoung likes taking pictures of it. he knows when they get home, taeyong will ask to print the pictures out and dongyoung will say _yes, anything for you,_ and he’ll watch with fond eyes as taeyong glues them to his scrapbook. their house is full of memories, in paper or in thought.

 

dongyoung can’t say he’s ever imagined picking out tomatoes would be romantic, but with taeyong’s beautiful smile, anything is possible.

 

▶

 

he’ll always remember taeyong’s face when he gets down on one knee on the dock of the han river.

 

“taeyong,” he says, and even his name makes dongyoung’s eyes swell up and fill with tear. “my flower. my soulmate.”

 

taeyong looks beautiful, even as he shakes when dongyoung recites his speech word to word, even as his hands cover his mouth, even as the neon lights of the city reflect the tears streaking down his face. dongyoung cries too, out of hope and sorrow and wish for rise.

 

they aren’t just engaged. they are connected by the string, from the tip of dongyoung’s pinky finger to the little crinkles of taeyong’s eyes, and dongyoung wants to kiss him, so he does.

 

▶

 

they set the wedding for the next summer, so that they are both at the good age of 24 by the time they marry. in the meanwhile, taeyong hums and arranges the bouquet in the middle of the dining table as dongyoung wipes the windows.

 

“i forgot to tell you,” taeyong says as he rearranges the bouquet once again. “i was invited to a special night at the national museum of piano arts, in sejong. it’s in three months, i think.”

 

it isn’t rare for taeyong to get invitations like these, as he’s more active in the high-class private arts community. dongyoung smiles and congratulates him, full of only warmth and love, and they look at hotels together.

 

❚❚

 

dongyoung helps taeyong pack.

 

he knows taeyong is staring at him, so dongyoung rolls his shirts up in little logs and fits them to the sides of the suitcase.

 

“you remembered,” taeyong says.

 

“of course i did,” dongyoung replies.

 

▶

 

dongyoung drives him to the airport and kisses him goodbye.

 

“back in a week?”

 

“back in a week.”

 

▶

 

today is the day, dongyoung knows. he’s on top of his schedule, and he knows that as soon as taeyong is finished with the tour, he’ll call.

 

so instead of working, he spends the day with a cup of coffee in his hand and a notebook in the other. he writes poetry, he writes lyrics, he drinks his coffee, he writes about taeyong. there is no emotion in words but there is emotion in writing, and every tilt of his wrist is a line of his finger drawing across taeyong’s cheek, lips, hair.

 

the call comes at five in the afternoon.

 

it’s turning dark, a beautiful orange brown shade of sky shining through the windows as dongyoung picks up. he takes the last sip of his coffee and rests it on the glass table, letting the clink ring out before bringing the phone to his ear.

 

“flowe-”

 

 _“dongyoung,”_ taeyong screams, almost, but quiet and pitiful and dongyoung stands up, chair falling backwards. _“please come. dongyoung, everything is burning, everything is red, please come, please, please,”_ and taeyong’s pleas echo in dongyoung’s ears until he can only see the picture of them sitting together on the beach, framed up on the wall.

 

“taeyong,” dongyoung says. he hears the colours of taeyong’s wailing, he hears something shatter and he hears taeyong hiccup and scream without voice and his own tongue is clogging his throat.

 

 _“i’m going to die,”_ taeyong pants, and dongyoung grips the phone with all the strength in his hands as he runs to the front door, grabbing only his car keys.

 

❚❚

 

there is not enough time. dongyoung drives on the highway and hits the gas pedal, with taeyong on the phone and all he can do is listen to the screams and the sound of crashing and taeyong’s uneven breath as he runs and dongyoung drives and nothing is fast enough, there are no planes and dongyoung dreads the hour road.

 

taeyong ends the call only ten minutes into dongyoung’s driving time, and dongyoung feels twenty million hammers breaking his skull, pounding his brain. he grips the wheel and drives faster.

 

❚❚

 

there is a traffic jam. dongyoung wants to scream, but he can’t do anything except sit very, very still.

 

❚❚

 

it turns out, he can’t see taeyong at all.

 

by the time he gets there, the building is in flames. he runs past the pylons and the caution tape and right into three policemen who hold him back by the arms.

 

“taeyong is in there,” he cries out, eyes focused only on the burning doors of the museum. “he’s in there, and he can be alive, and you fucking shits are doing nothing-” he finds himself out of breath, inhaling smoke and air and eyes blinded by white.

 

“we’re evacuating those who we can right now,” a policeman says. dongyoung doesn’t hear him, he refuses not to hear him, he only wants to run into the building and find his taeyong, his beautiful flower, his soulmate, his angel, his taeyong.

 

the moment the grip on him loosens, he runs. he runs into the flames and past everybody he can and he makes it into the building, faced by thousands and thousands of eyes and hallways and the grand piano is on fire and he can’t see taeyong. where is he? he can’t find him. where’s taeyong? is taeyong safe? the firemen, or the policemen, they have to get him out. it’s their job. they have to-

 

they rip him out of the building and tell him to stay down. he’s trapped in his own body, in front of his burning lover.

 

▶

 

they don’t find him.

 

▶

 

dongyoung stays in the hotel. he doesn’t want to go home, he doesn’t want to see their house or their things, he wants to see taeyong.

 

he wants to see taeyong.

 

eventually, somebody calls ten. he doesn’t know who, and he doesn’t care who. he only wants to see taeyong. where is he?

 

“dongyoung, you can’t stay here.”

 

“they’re going to find him,” dongyoung replies, and he sits in the black hotel chair with dry eyes and dry skin and dry lips. “they’ll find him.”

 

ten sighs. “i’m here to help you pack. listen, i know it’s hard to cope with. i don’t know what-”

 

“shut up,” dongyoung says.

 

ten purses his lips and says nothing more. he just empties the closet, full of only taeyong’s clothes, and throws the suitcase on the bed, open.

 

dongyoung stares at his reflection in the computer screen.

 

“hey,” ten says, and dongyoung closes his eyes. he doesn’t want to see ten, or the clothes, or the suitcase, or the room, or himself. “do you want these folded, or-”

 

dongyoung wants to tell him to roll them. instead, he listens to the trees, and he can almost hear taeyong’s voice calling out for him in melody, laughter echoing in nothing but his own mind.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/neovyong)  
> 1/2 of my renmin will be posted next! woo!


End file.
